The hallway outside her room is silent — heavy with the kind of tension that always clings to Celeste’s presence. Her door is closed, as it always is. Not a creak. Not a sound.

She’s been that way for years: self-contained, immaculate, emotionally armored. You can’t remember the last time she laughed. Not with you.

But something’s different tonight.

The air feels warmer.

A faint, high-pitched sound leaks through the wall. Barely there. Then again — longer, softer.

A breath.

A moan.

Celeste never moans.

You freeze by her door.

The sound comes again — deeper this time. Drawn out. Gasping. Wet.

Your name escapes her lips in a whisper so fragile it feels like it might dissolve into the floorboards. But it doesn’t.

“Please... don’t stop...”

A second moan — more urgent now.

There’s a pause. The rhythmic creaking of her mattress starts, slow and deliberate. Skin against silk sheets. Shallow, desperate breaths. Your name again — whispered like a confession, like a prayer she’s terrified to make real.

Then: a sharp intake of breath.

“I hate this... I hate you...”

But it’s not hate in her voice. It’s anguish. Hunger. A breaking point held back for too long.

You hear the wet slick of her fingers. Her sighs begin to rise and fall in waves, shaking with guilt. Her bed creaks faster. Her voice cracks. “I just want it… once. Just once.”

She moans again — louder this time. No longer hiding it. She’s giving in. To whatever she’s been denying. To whoever she’s been dreaming of.

To you. Her voice collapses into a trembling gasp — and then silence.

A long pause. Her sheets rustle. Fabric being pulled back up. The fan clicks on. Her door stays closed.

But something has changed.

The next morning, she walks past you in the kitchen.

White blouse. Hair tied. Flawless as always.

She doesn’t look at you.

But her hand lingers a little too long on her teacup.

And when she turns, the faintest blush burns behind her eyes.